Faith, and Trust, and Pixie Dust
by ShamrockNinny
Summary: Finch has always had pixie dust, but upon meeting Reese he finds the other two-thirds of the world.


" _All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust."_

 _-J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan_

* * *

Synopsis: Finch has always had pixie dust, but upon meeting Reese he finds the other two-thirds of the world.

* * *

They say third time's the charm, John had no doubt that it was true. He was someone who lived by his gut and anyone who lived by their gut always had just a tiny seed of superstition. He wasn't prone to tossing salt over his shoulder and God knew how many mirrors he'd broken throughout his career. But little things, like when he knocked on wood after Jessica had said she hoped he would never leave. A small sheepish smile had come on his face that was covering up how well he knew her wish to be fantasy even while his callused knuckles rasped against the rough oak wood in a quiet plea for fate to deem it otherwise.

Meeting his mysterious and interesting employer in a graveyard marked the third job he would be completing since starting this job. He learned of little Theresa who had supposedly been part of a gruesome suicide-murder. It had progressed from there, John working as hard as he could to protect the distrusting Theresa and to glean some sort of information about his boss.

Now he was pounding down the hallway of the hotel, a mantra in his head, hoping that Theresa was okay and that Finch wasn't a gutless man. No matter an individual's intents, the pressure of a situation was the moment in which their character was revealed. Finch struck him as a posh, idealistic, paranoid man with too much money who had had one little bad thing happen and decided that he wanted to change the world. Men with money and fantasies were dangerous. But he had to credit Finch with vast resources. So far he was still coming up with numbers and every one of them needed help. No matter the frivolity of the bored billionaire, it was a legitimate thing that John wasn't drunk anymore and he was saving lives.

John slipped through the hotel door soundlessly, moving as quickly as he could. Eyeing his surroundings he was disturbed to find Theresa's broken phone on the floor, along with a shattered glass, fragmented pieces catching the light. He heard the heavy command of the assassin demanding someone to stand to the side and then a beat of silence before the sound of gunshots. John was too late. He rounded the corner and put five rounds too many into the assailant. The only thing in his mind was the hope that Theresa was okay.

* * *

Harold didn't trust many people, in all actuality he trusted no one, not even himself. He'd been cowardly before, selfish and idealistic, assuming he could create power and then let it go as if the world was made up of puppy dogs and rainbows. Foolishness; he'd been so, so foolish.

Then the accident, then his pain, then the months of watching innocents die while he was powerless to stop it. Not anymore, never again, that was what he told himself. Now here he was in a hotel, trying to protect a girl who had had everything taken from her. He wanted to give something back and see her move on. John had called, informing him that the assassin was coming up. He'd rushed back to the room, leg tingling with pain as he pushed it beyond its capacities. Theresa was scared. Finch vowed to himself that he wouldn't let her get hurt. They moved back into the hotel room itself, hiding by the couch.

Finch took Theresa's phone and set up the small decoy, waiting with her for the right timing. They moved quickly down the hall, headed for some exit. Finch knew it was to the window and its fire escape, he knew he would be left behind, but Theresa would be safe and that was what mattered.

Finch opened the window.

"Go, go," Finch prompted, "get away, Mr. Reese will find you. You'll be safe."

Theresa looked at the window, the bright fifteen year old quickly surmising that Finch would not be able to get his injured body through.

"No," she said, shaking her head, "No, I'm not leaving you."

Finch felt his heart drop.

"Please, go," he begged, he couldn't see another person die.

Theresa shook her head, face set in determination. Harold had no physical capacity to force the girl to safety. The only thing he could do was offer the pitiful protection his body could offer as a shield. Harold did so, standing so Theresa was behind him.

The assailant rounded the corner, gun held up and pointed at them.

"Move!" The man barked.

Harold gave a small shake of his head, terror filling him while he spread his arms and positioned himself to better cover Theresa.

The gun sounded and Harold felt as if he'd been punched in the side, then his shoulder and leg. He could feel himself falling, the moment surreal. One moment he was standing the next he was on the floor, stunned and breathless. He heard more gunshots and felt despair fill him. He'd failed, Theresa was dead or hurt. Finch felt his heart constrict, the little girl was dead because he'd failed.

Blinking sluggishly he was surprised to see Reese's face appear. Reese's mouth was moving, Finch realized dully that he couldn't hear. He strained to be there, to bring his body to awareness and suddenly sound came back along with pain.

"Finch," Reese was saying his name and he looked worried.

Finch opened his mouth, gaping soundlessly as his throat tightened, dry and struggling.

"Theresa," he managed to gasp, even while his body screamed at him to breathe.

Something flickered in Reese's eyes, something Finch had no mental capacity to think about.

"She's okay, she's not hurt," John reassured, understanding Finch's unspoken question.

Finch relaxed at that, even as pain took over and his vision started to blur. He was so tired, was it okay to sleep, would Nathan forgive him?

"Finch? Finch!"

Harold didn't respond, tired and wanting to rest. A hand slapped his face but he let his eyes slip shut.

* * *

John rounded the corner, not even glancing twice at the man he had put on the ground. He saw Theresa, standing in shock while Finch was on the ground. Rushing forward he knelt, taking in the the three gunshot wounds, one to the leg, one to right above the hip and one to the shoulder. John said Finch's name, trying to catch the man's attention. Finch's eyes were wide open, blue and staring in shock. John could feel the slight tremble of Finch's body.

John repeated Finch's name. Finch opened his mouth, nothing coming out before John heard the man rasp out Theresa's name. John felt guilt course through him for an instant, cursing himself for thinking that his employer was a coward. The crippled man had protected Theresa, and even while injured was worried about her safety. It seemed he had misjudged the character of his employer.

John reassured him and then he saw the man visibly give up. Cussing took up John's mind, that and the desperate realization that Finch needed help soon or he was going to die. Looking over to Theresa he saw her wide, terrified eyes, but more than that he saw that she was still capable of helping. He glanced at the open window and quickly surmised what had occurred. Finch was a selfless idiot, Theresa was a dumb brave kid. It was too bad he was the only one with a brain between the three of them.

"Theresa, I need you to go down the stairs and go out through the back entrance, it will be at the end of the first floor corridor. There is a black Lincoln there, here are the keys."

John quickly pulled the set of keys from his pocket and handed it to her, duly noting her shaking hands. He kept her gaze, keeping a calm tone and careful, unpanicked movements.

"Start the car, wait for me. I'm going to bring Harold down in a few minutes."

Theresa nodded, chin nearly dipping to her chest at the emphatic motion. She looked like she was about to cry.

"I need you to help me save Harold, alright Theresa," John said calmly.

Theresa nodded again and he was impressed to see her resolve strengthen before she sped from the room. Once she was gone, John turned to Finch. He'd been pressing down with both hands on the hip wound, as that appeared to be the worst. Luckily, field triage was something John was capable enough with doing. Even more lucky was Harold, the shooter hadn't aimed as well as he could have and for the most part all three wounds appeared to be superficial in the long-term.

He pulled the linen sheets off one of the beds and came back, ripping it into pieces so he could wrap the wounds. John worked quickly and efficiently. He finished and for the first time looked down at Finch. The man was pale and weak, quiet puffed arrogance gone and appearing ever so human. It was easy to forget he was a billionaire and someone who broke federal laws, if covertly and with elegance.

John spent a minute thinking of how he would move Finch, desiring not to damage the man's obviously fused spine and whatever injury was present in his leg. Finally, John picked Finch up bridal style, determining the man small enough in comparison to him to do so.

The hotel was quiet and John met nobody, he imagined most people had vacated the area as soon as they had heard shots fired. This held true as the lobby was empty and he met no one on his way out the back. The Lincoln was pulled up to the entrance and Theresa sat in the front, hands clenched around the wheel.

She jumped out of the car and threw the door open, allowing John to awkwardly, but gently, place Harold on the back seat. Once done, Theresa started to move towards the front seat of the car. John stopped her with a hand around her arm.

"Theresa, you need to stay here."

Emotions flitted across her face in quick succession before they settled on defiance.

"I know you want to help Harold, but it will be a lot easier if you stay here and wait for the police to come. You have someone who cares about you and has been waiting for you for a very long time."

Theresa frowned, confusion slipping into understanding. John's blue eyes were patient and calm.

"But, you guys, you've done so much for me, I can't, I can't just leave him," Theresa cried, eyes flicking to where Finch was laid out in the back of the car.

"Trust me to take care of him," John reassured.

Theresa bit her lip, looking like she still wanted to argue. Finally she looked up at John, intense gaze holding him responsible.

"Promise me that," she demanded.

There was a beat of silence.

"I promise I will take care of him."

Theresa nodded, eyes glancing to the side.

"Okay," she said.

John shut the back door, no longer watching her and trusting she would do as she said. He moved to the front door and started changing gears, intent on starting toward the library.

He had wondered for a while if he should take Finch to the hospital, ensure the man's safety with proper medical care. But as Finch had stated, he was a dead man, they both were, and on top of that he was a very private person. John wasn't sure how well it would go over if he brought the man in.

If Finch had been dying or in need of major surgery, it would be an entirely different matter. Though it was yet to be seen if he did need more aid, John could guess that at the moment they had everything they needed. All he had to do now was get the medical supplies necessary. The part of Finch's unlimited wealth he allowed John access to and John's unique ability to find unsavory and illegal salesman would get him that part of it.

Taking out his phone he began dialing in on connections. But first, Detective Carter, if he trusted anyone to keep Theresa safe it was Carter.

* * *

Finch felt his whole world burning, collapsing in on him and crushing him. He opened his eyes and tried to speak, his tongue felt lead heavy, stuck to the glue of his mouth. He was so very thirsty.

"Finch?"

Someone was calling his name. Grace? No, it was a man. The man appeared over him looking concerned.

"N-t'an?" Finch managed to laboriously choke out.

The crease on the man's brow furrowed further. There were murmured words, lost in a sea of tentative reality. Finch tried to grasp at it, but it slipped from the fingers of his mind and he fell unconscious.

* * *

John brought in a connection, Mason Higley, a veteran, previous field medic, and member of New York's fine homeless population. Higley, after cleaning himself up, worked on Finch, his fingers trembling from whatever chemical his brain needed. He was still fast and professional, letting out quiet comments of explanation to John who was hovering over his shoulder.

Higley finished, Finch would be fine so long as John kept the bandages clean and made sure Finch was given antibiotics and kept hydrated. A makeshift I.V. was set up. John passed Higley a wad of cash and whispered something in his ear. Higley gave a stiff nod and left. He would be getting a bullet to the brain if he let anything slip. John glanced around the safe house he stayed in. He was glad it wasn't his favorite because after Finch was better they would be abandoning it. John didn't trust his contacts.

Then he'd re-entered his room where Finch was splayed on the bed, breathing now calm and his whole body stiff with bandaging. He looked rather small in the king sized bed, and rather old. John stared, mind recalibrating his knowledge of his employer after these most recent events. Maybe frivolous and bored weren't the correct words to describe Finch, there was something deeper to it all and Finch was starting to strike a picture of a man willing to sacrifice everything. Rich men with silly fantasies did not sacrifice everything.

John didn't know everything about Finch, but he was learning a bit more and he was finding a good man, a faulty man, but a good man nonetheless. Possibly a man he could trust, definitely someone worth protecting.

* * *

Finch woke up cohesive, he felt as weak as a baby bird, exhausted body barely able to hold onto consciousness. John was right there, a silent guard. Finch wasn't sure whether to feel reassured or disquieted.

"Mr. Reese," his voice was hoarse and the words came out strained.

John somehow still heard and had a cup of water in hand, a straw being held so that Finch could sip some of the liquid. As soon as the cup was pulled away he attempted to sit up. It did not go well and John was there, an arm supporting his back and carefully slipping a cushion behind him.

By the time Finch breathed through the pain and dizziness in his head John was sitting back in the chair he'd drawn up to the bed. The man looked unperturbed, face smoothed over and unreadable. Finch in contrast felt frayed, his own mask ripped away. He quickly tried to mantle it.

"What happened?"

There was a pause, John blinked, eased back in his chair, wrists resting on his knees.

"You got shot," he replied, his voice that airy baritone.

Finch somehow felt scolded.

"I am aware of that, Mr. Reese, I was referring to the subject of our mission, the number."

Another pause which had Finch losing his originally nonexistent sense of control. John folded though, gently, his acquiescence by choice.

"Theresa's safe, Carter got her back to her aunt and the case is being wrapped up by the NYPD and their boys in blue."

John shifted, head tilting to the side as he watched Finch. Finch gave a little nod, his eyes darting down towards his lap. It seemed he hadn't suffered for nothing.

"My recovery?" Finch asked, glancing critically at the rudimentary I.V. which was in place and the expertly wrapped bandages.

"I don't exactly have a highly professional and working doctor on speed dial, I did what I could."

Finch gave another nod.

"If you could supply me with my personal items I would be very grateful, there are a few things of business I need to conduct and then I will orchestrate my removal from your property," Finch raised his gaze to John before continuing, "I assume you will need another property?"

John didn't respond but Finch took the answer as yes. Standing, John retrieved Finch's cellphone and laptop. Finch took them silently and then John walked away, knowing the man would want his privacy.

"Mr. Reese?"

John turned around and looked Finch in the eyes. He saw emotion there and apparently it was a rare thing because Finch's tremulous eyes dropped almost immediately to the bedspread.

"Thank you," it was very soft, "I probably would not be here if you had not helped me."

For some reason that struck John, it was very humble, something he hadn't thought was a characteristic of his mysterious employer. His own gaze fell and he gave a nod. Finch saw it.

"I probably wouldn't be here if you hadn't helped me," John replied.

He let it sit for a moment before stepping out.

Finch picked his phone up, preparing to use it, he stared at it though as soon as the light came on. For the first time he felt as though he'd made a much better choice of his partner this time around. Trust was the hardest currency to exchange for him, it was nigh invaluable and it had been a very long time since he had placed it in anyone. Hope filled him, faith that maybe someday he would be able to trust John fully.


End file.
